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The god of covers makes their home in the base of an ancient gnarled apple tree. The weathered trunk is white from cold, yet apples perpetually hang from its branches, glinting ruby red from within their coverings of ice. The shrine is little known but well used; loved and honored in quiet and humble ways.

No one finds the shrine on purpose. They always stumble in on the bitterest of nights, chilled to the bone with only a few stubborn stars and a hint of the moon breaking through the clouds to light their way. Moonlight will shine on the frozen apples until they glow like lanterns, and the doors will always swing open before you actually knock. Inside, you will always find thick comforters folded up on a chair, cozied teapots on the nearby table. Baskets of bobbins and thread and yarn are tucked in every corner. Stitched patterns and tapestries cover the walls.

And without fail, you will find the god in the colorfully overstuffed chair by the fireplace, bundled up in shawls with a huge amount of stitching overflowing out of their lap. Their needle flashes through their work—in and out and in and out—quick flashes of silver to accompany the muted jingle of the ornaments they choose to bedeck themselves with. Sometimes the god's hands are slender and pale, or thin and knobbly, but their eyes are always as bright as the tree they live in, and they never need to look down as they work.

The god will sit you down; they will wrap you up in a comforter and pour you a cup of tea. If the wind isn't howling they might make some small talk. If there's a light fluttering of snow outside they might have spiced apple treats, warm from the oven. If it is late—and it is always late when you come to the shrine—they will bid you stay the night, to take a beautifully patterned throw to the back room and burrow into a bed that's as soft as a dream.

In the morning, you will wake in where you need to be, to a thick cloak folded at the foot of your bed that will never let you know cold, or a heavy covering for your walls, with which will always make your guests feel welcome in your home. Or perhaps, for your little ones, duvets and quilts and blankets to protect them as they sleep or play. There is always something.

In return, the god asks only for an apple or perhaps some thread, a few silver coins if they can be spared, tossed out in the snow outside your door. Then the god in the gnarled apple tree will prepare their next gift and welcome their next guest, and if the wind isn't howling they will make small talk, or if there are flurries of snow there will be tiny spiced apple cakes, and if it is late—and it is always late—they will bid the next guest to stay the night, and in the morning they will wake where they need to be.